Author Archives: kcmoyer65

On the Brink

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July 18, 2017

I had not planned to step backwards into a void when I boarded the ferry from the mainland island of Orkney on the north coast of Scotland to the island of Hoy, but that is what I did.

I had climbed the stairs to the open deck when we boarded the ferry and sat on benches with the other seven from my small tour group until the cold wind and the ocean spray made me think better of the decision and decide to find a drier place to sit for the thirty minute trip. 

Coming down from the sunlight to the dark and into a crowd of passengers trying to go up the stairs to the open deck, I stepped backwards to give them room, into a void.

As I fell, head first, backwards, down the flight of stairs that led to the passenger lounge below decks, my brain registered what was happening, and I screamed for help.

We take our lives and these soft bodies for granted, most of the time. It is not only the young teens who think they are impervious to death, it is all of us. We know in one part of our brains what a slim line separates us from death, but most of the time we are able to shrug it off. There might be a moment in a plane, our seat belts fastened, our bodies pressed back as the plane begins to climb, that we silently acknowledge to ourselves that we live on the brink between life and death, but most of the time we delude ourselves that we are immortal, or close to it.

In that moment of falling, I knew that death was possible, that we are always on the brink.

And then I felt a hand grab my hand, and a voice say, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” and I looked up to see a small brown haired woman with glasses staring down at me, gripping my right hand, keeping me from sliding any further down the stairs. And then other hands were there, below me and above me, helping me down the stairs where I could get to my feet, and then helping me to climb the stairs to a quiet spot where I could sit down, offering me tea, asking me who they should find. All of them were strangers.

The metal edges of the stairs had branded me from the top of my shoulders to my thighs, but I had not broken my neck or cracked my spine. I was very lucky.

As I sat there, breathless and shaken to the core, I remembered the words of the brown-haired stranger: “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”  

And I was back from the brink.

A Love Song, on Mother’s Day

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May 12, 2017

It is Mother’s Day, and instead of thinking of my mother, as I should by popular tradition, I am thinking of you, the father of my children. Perhaps it is because I am sitting in the corner of the couch closest to the picture window, your favorite spot to sit and read. I used to sit opposite you, in the black leather chair with my feet up on the ottoman, and every now and then look up from my book and say something to you, although often I was out at a meeting and you read alone.

Now I sit in your spot on the couch because it is easier to get up from the couch with its higher seat and arms and I am older, and if truth be told, I like this view of the garden better. I have snagged the ottoman, so I can put my feet up, and although I began reading the latest book group selection on my Kindle, I have stopped to listen to the Carolina wren outside the picture window. He is singing away, so big a song for his tiny body, and perched on a branch of the lilac shrub that we tried to kill off because it was so massive when we moved into this house forty years ago, and when the lilac persisted and did not die we let it be.

I look out the window with your eyes, seeing the wren in the lilac shrub, the wren house swaying from the eaves where this little bird is building a new nest. We bought that bird house on a vacation to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. You put up the hook the wren house is hanging from. And when the original cording broke, you strung new cord, and that cord is holding still.

Beyond the window your eyes must have seen the changing light at this time of day, when the sun dips lower in the west, lighting up the spring green leaves of the willow oak that we planted together so many years ago. The willow oak and her sister have so shaded the bed by the picture window that I replaced the struggling plants you would remember. Now ferns, hellebores, native geraniums, and astilbe grow there.

But inside, this living room is not much changed at all. You could sit down in your favorite spot on this couch and pick up from the side table the last book you were reading before you became too ill to read: A Team of Rivals. There are other books stacked on top of it, but I have not found the heart to move it.

There is a new basket for kindling on the raised hearth, and a new hearth rug. There are two new Siamese cats sitting on the rug: Jasmine and your sweet Blueberry have passed away. And there is me, not all that different after almost seven years, but perhaps stronger for this journey, sitting in your favorite spot on the couch, listening to the Carolina wren singing his love song in the lilac shrub.

Love and Loss and Grief

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April 9, 2017

My minister asked me to speak about the healing power of love at our worship services this past Sunday, and this is what I said:

Not quite seven years ago, my husband Bill died of cancer. He was one month and one day short of his 68th birthday. We celebrated our 45th wedding anniversary six weeks before his death. Bill died at home in our bedroom, peacefully with his family around him. We were able to give him the kind of death he wanted.

When such a deep loss happens to you, you feel as though someone has handed you this enormous boulder to carry, a rough and heavy boulder of grief. You stagger at first as you try to carry it, and you try not to fall down with it in public, but in private you simply collapse and sit beside that boulder and weep.

But after a time you learn how to carry the boulder without collapsing so frequently. And after an even longer time the boulder seems not as large and not as heavy, or perhaps you have grown stronger and learned how to carry it more easily. And the surface is no longer as rough, perhaps smoothed by time or by your tears, and the boulder has become easier to grip.

And once your boulder of grief does not overwhelm you, you lift your head up and you look around.

You look at all the people with such tenderness and new awareness.

And you see clearly the boulders so many are carrying. You knew on an intellectual level before, that they were burdened by grief and sorrow, but now you see their grief with your heart.

The friends who lost their son in a terrible accident.

Your colleague who struggles with depression, and the other colleague whose mother has been diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s.

Your friend whose husband collapsed while running and died of a heart attack.

The couple who are coming to terms with the fact that they will never conceive a child.

And for those whose stories you do not know, but you can imagine. No one is spared from grief.

Your own heart has been softened by grief, and your sense of compassion has expanded. You will never be the same.

And perhaps after a very long time, your boulder will shrink in size until it is a rock small enough to fit into your pocket, a warm smooth rock that is a talisman of the love that will never leave you and that has opened your heart to all those around you.

May it be so.

Memory

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February 18, 2017

Our ship had docked in the harbor of the most beautiful island of our journey through the Aegean Sea.  Symi is tiny and hilly, with white and yellow houses rising up the steep hillside from the blue harbor. I wanted so much to swim in that blue sea, but doing so was unlikely. There seemed to be no beaches. So when our trip leader Alexander asked if anyone wanted to swim, I said yes eagerly. You, of course, did not want to swim, not sharing my passion, but you waited while I rushed back to our cabin to put on a swimsuit and sundress, and to grab a towel. I hurried back to the deck, and we joined another couple to descend the gangplank and thread our way along the narrow sidewalk around the harbor. Small shops formed a wall to our left, with the sea to our right.

Alexander turned a corner, leaving the curve of the harbor, and soon stopped by some benches.  He pointed to the sea. “There you go!” he exclaimed. I was dubious. The harbor was very close by, and I worried about the pollution from the ships. But the other couple had laid down their towels on one of the benches and were descending the steps cut into the stone wall and splashing into the sea. You sat down on another bench. My desire to swim conquered my worries and leaving my towel and sundress next to you, I held onto the cold chain next to the stone steps and carefully reached for each slimy step with my bare feet, taking care not to strike my misshapen second toe against the rocks.

At last I threw myself backwards into the cold sea with a whoop of joy. You smiled and waved at me. Behind you the white houses climbed the hills, and the sun shone in the blue sky.

I think of that moment now, as I descend the steps in this hotel in San Miguel de Allende, where the sun shines in the blue sky and the white and blue and yellow houses climb the hillsides. I remember that afternoon swimming in the Aegean Sea off the island of Symi, and I remember your smile.

The Night Shelter

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Fifteen degrees above zero
A foot of snow on the ground
And the shelter wings through the night
Like the red eye bound from LA to New York
Or the transatlantic flight to London,
Heavy with sleep and dreams.

Here sleeps the Korean taxi driver,
And the Latino construction worker,
The woman with the broken ribs who flinches in her sleep,
The pregnant girl curled next to her lover, and
The man with eyes wide open who steadily talks to god
As if god could hear.

In the gray dawn one by one they will awake,
Look for coffee,
Find bathrooms,
Brush their teeth,
Pack up their bedding,
And prepare to land
In yet another day.

February 14, 2006

This is What Democracy Looks Like

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This is What Democracy Looks Like

500,000 people… or thereabouts. And I was one of them.

Saturday, January 21st, 2017, Washington DC: the day after the presidential inauguration of Donald Trump, the day of the Women’s March on Washington and 670 Sister Marches worldwide.

Chartered buses dropped off passengers. Cars lined up at Metro station parking lots. And masses of people filled the Metro cars. Women and men, many wearing pink pussy-hats. People using walkers and canes. Grandmothers, teenagers, children. People of all shades of black and brown and white. Many of them carried handmade signs, ranging from lewd to amusing to clever.

Women’s Rights are Human Rights
My Body My Business
Free Melania
It must be bad, even the introverts are here
You have awakened the dragon

Despite being jammed into Metro cars, the mood was buoyant and behavior civil.

From the stations of Metro Center and Judicial Square, L’Enfant Plaza and Federal South West, the people streamed, climbing escalators that had been turned off for safety’s sake. They filled Third Street leading up to Independence, the site of the rally stage. They filled all the surrounding streets, waiting for the march planned to take them west on Independence, then north on 14th Street, and west again to the Ellipse, close to the White House. As more people arrived,
the crowds were packed closer and closer together. From time to time, the call went out, “Medic! Medic!” and the crowd squeezed together to allow room for an ambulance to get past.

On Seventh Street where I stood, young men and women climbed trees for a better view and sat on the walls around the Hirshhorn Museum.

Large screens had been set up to broadcast the speakers and singers at the rally, but it was difficult for the crowd to see, and the sound system could not carry to the massive crowd. For the most part, the crowd stood patiently for over four hours, though every now and then a group would begin to shout, “We want to march!”

About two o’clock, the word began trickling out that the crowd was too large for the original march route. “To the Mall!” some called, and the people began an exodus. Marchers filled the Mall and moved onto Constitution Avenue and toward the White House. They gathered in front of the Old Post Office Building, now the site of the Trump Hotel, shouted slogans and booed, and piled their signs on the sidewalk.

It was late evening before the last of the people left.

When I talk to people who were there, what do they say about the day?

Amazing

Exhilarating

Exhausting

Joyful

Hopeful

Energizing

And we will need that energy for the road ahead.

And the World Turned Upside Down

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January 29, 2017

Executive Order Banning Muslims from Entering United States
In this dreadful week that is filling me with sorrow and intense rage,  for self-care I am listening to Comedy Central on Sirius on my car radio while driving, and sometimes laughing hard; watching funny movies at night (Galaxy Quest a personal favorite ), and this Sunday going to church to be among kindred souls to listen and sing and pray in our own ways.

This afternoon I saw a bluebird on my patio, and my heart lifted up with such joy.

This is going to be a long haul, dear sisters and brothers. Do what you can to warm your hearts and infuse yourselves with energy, love, and determination for the long road ahead that we will travel together. Take care of yourselves and know that we are not alone.

Link

December 18, 2016

Solstice Song

In the cold church hall
The singer tunes his guitar
And in the empty chair beside me
Your ghost sits down
Wearing the same blue shirt
And khaki pants you wore
That hot summer night
Six years and seven months ago
On our wedding anniversary
When we came to hear this same singer
Tune his guitar and sing of
The holy in everything

Your ghost hand takes my hand
Your ghost fingers wrap around mine
And with your other hand
If you wished
You could touch the tear on my cheek
As the singer sings of the dark and the loss
And the light in everything

The guitar thrums
The air hums with music
And your ghost breathes my name

Candles in the Windows

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December 6, 2016

This afternoon I placed electric candles in all the windows of the house (good thing it is a small house.)

The candles in the windows were one of Bill’s favorite Christmas decorations, and although he left much of the Yuletide decorating to his own personal Christmas Genie (whose efforts he applauded and admired) he did help with the traditional candles. They also were the decorations that he liked to go up early in the holiday season and take down very late (as in March or Easter!)

Now I plug the candles in and test them, replace light bulbs, and place them in the windows by myself.

So dear Bill, wherever you are, I hope you can see the warm lights of home shining with love from our windows on this dark and rainy night.

 

By the Light of the Moon

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Sunday November 13, 2016

This is the month of the super moon, when the moon is closer to the earth than normal. The moon won’t be this close again until 2034. So if I subtract the year 2034 from the current year 2016, that equals 28 years. And my age plus 28 equals 101. Meaning I probably won’t be alive by the time the next super moon arrives. Or maybe I will be alive but I will be too frail to go outside and look up at the night sky. Whatever, I must go outside and look for the moon, especially when it rises and appears on the horizon.

Last night the moon was shining clearly, but not as large as it will be tomorrow night, the penultimate night. Last night the moon’s cold, dispassionate light shone down on all of us humans with our worries and wars and riots, our kindness and our cruelties, our fear of the other and our defense of the different. The moon has shone like this on mankind in similar circumstances and never blinked its eye or turned its face away. It is no different now. The moon shines, the owl calls through the trees, and the deer lie down on my hill top, dark shadows under the moon.